Chapter XII: Half a Dozen Cooks

Christmas had come and gone, and the new year was well started in its course. The time was passing rapidly for the seven young people, who were making the very most of the cold, bracing winter weather. There were coasting frolics and skating parties, long walks and longer sleigh-rides, and even one grand snowball fight which was brought to an untimely end by a carelessly aimed ball that flew straight from Jessie's hand to the back of Aunt Jane's stately neck, just as that good woman was starting for the jail with a large package of tracts clasped in her black-gloved hands. The calls on Bridget still continued and the long-talked-of play was slowly approaching completion. Jean had worked on it at intervals during her father's illness, and it was now so nearly done that the girls had thought it was advisable to begin rehearsing on the first part of it at once.

And best of all the good times were the long, cosey evenings, when they gathered around the open fire, either at the Hapgood house, or else in Mrs. Adams's parlor, to talk over the events of the day or tell stories, while they roasted apples and popped corn over the coals, regardless of the fact that much better results and much fewer burns would have come from the same labors performed over the kitchen stove.

They were all settled at Polly's one snowy evening, Mrs. Adams sewing by the lamp, Polly, Jessie, and Alan curled up on the rug, and the others in low chairs, when Aunt Jane came into the room, looking like a funereal sort of spook in her long, shiny black waterproof.

"What now, Jane?" inquired her sister, glancing up from her work.

"Mothers' Meeting," responded Aunt Jane, disdainfully eying the home-like group before her.

"Oh, Jane, I wouldn't take that long walk on such a stormy night," urged Mrs. Adams.

"If these children can come here for mere pleasure, it certainly is not too stormy for me to go out on an errand of duty," answered Aunt Jane, with dignity. "And, Isabel, I really think it is your duty, too, as a mother, to go to these meetings. They are very helpful and improving, and would be a great source of comfort to you in training Polly."

"Perhaps they might be, if I went," replied her sister gently; "but you can never make me believe, Jane, that I ought to go away and leave Polly alone, one night in every week."

"Don't go, Mrs. Adams," implored Alan, in an undertone.

"I haven't the least idea of it, Alan," she answered, as the door closed behind Aunt Jane. "People don't all think alike about these things, and your mother and I both believe that we can do more good by staying at home, and trying to know and understand our own boys and girls, than by leaving them while we tell somebody else how to bring up her children that we have never seen." And Mrs. Adams gave a little nod of conviction, as Katharine moved her chair back to the table, saying heartily,--

"I quite agree with you, auntie."

"Perhaps if you'd always been to the meetings, Jerusalem, I'd have been more of a success," remarked Polly pensively, as she settled herself more comfortably with her head in Jean's lap.

"No use wasting one's time on poor material," said Alan philosophically, while he shielded his face from the blaze with the shovel.

"Molly, do you remember what a time we had one night, trying to make this fire burn?" inquired Polly, thoughtlessly betraying the secret of their experiences.

"Don't I, though!" answered Molly fervently.

"When was that?" asked Florence.

"Last fall, when mamma went to New York," answered Polly. "We wouldn't tell you then, but I don't care now, do you, Molly?"

"You'd better let me tell it," put in Alan. "You girls won't half do it justice. Now listen." And he told the tale of their housekeeping experiences, suppressing nothing, but, on the contrary, making such additions as his fertile brain and an utter disregard of the facts could suggest.

By the time his story was done, Polly and Molly were blushing and protesting, while the other girls were lying back in their seats, exhausted with laughing.

"Is that all?" asked Katharine, as her cousin ceased speaking.

"All! I should think it was, and more too," said Molly. "He made up half of that, and the other half he exaggerated so that it couldn't recognize itself, if it tried."

"How many of you girls would do any better?" added Polly.

"I can't cook the first solitary thing," admitted Florence; "but I had a cousin that used to make bread when she was ten years old."

"Much good that does you," remarked Alan disrespectfully. "My grandmother was a splendid cook, but I never found that it helped Molly any."

"I can cook," said Jean, with manifest pride; "I know how to do meat and lots of things; but I don't suppose I should, if I hadn't had to."

"I always wanted to get into the kitchen, when I was a little girl," said Florence. "We had one girl that used to let me roll out pie-crust and stir up muffins; but mamma caught me one day, with a new gown all covered with flour and bits of dough, and after that there was no kitchen for me."

"Ask Alan how he boiled some meat once," said Molly.

Alan hung his head in confusion.

"I'll tell you, if he won't," went on his sister mercilessly. "Two years ago we had some company just before Thanksgiving, and mamma wanted to boil some meat for mince pies. We hadn't any girl, so when we went to ride, she told Alan, to watch it and put in more water when it needed it, so it shouldn't burn. He went off to play ball and forgot it, and--"Molly made an impressive pause.

"Go on, Molly," urged Polly, delighted that the tables were turned, and Alan's failings to be brought to light.

"Well," resumed Molly, ignoring her brother's threatening glances; "as soon as we turned the corner, coming home, we noticed a most awful smell. It grew worse, the nearer we came to the house; and then we saw the kitchen door wide open, and the smoke just pouring out in streams." Molly's metaphors were becoming mixed, but the girls never minded that, as she continued, "Mamma was dreadfully frightened, for she thought the house was on fire. We rushed in, and there was the meat frizzling away on the stove, and Alan so excited that he was just hopping up and down and crying, and letting it burn away, because he didn't dare take it off. It was more than a week before the smoke was out of the house."

A gentle snore from Alan greeted the end of the story. He had rolled over on his face, and was apparently sound asleep.

"There!" said Polly, with an accent of relief. "I'm glad we aren't the only know-nothings in the world, Molly."

"The question is, how are we going to know something," said Katharine thoughtfully.

"Let's turn our reading club into a cooking club," suggested Jessie; "that is, if Mrs. Adams is willing."

"Yes, and poison ourselves, or else die of indigestion," interrupted Alan, waking abruptly to make this remark.

"Oh, you go to sleep again!" said Polly, rolling a hassock at him.

But Alan appropriated the weapon, and at once put it to use as a pillow, while his sister said reflectively,--

"I wish we could do something of the kind. I don't know as we can; but I should so like to know how to do enough cooking so that Polly and I won't starve to death, next time we keep house."

While they were talking, Mrs. Adams had been hastily thinking over the possibility of giving the girls a few lessons in plain cooking. Such a plan would take some of her time, and involve much trouble and waste, besides, as Alan had suggested, imperilling the digestions of the family. But, on the other hand, Mrs. Adams had always felt that any woman, no matter how many servants she might keep, should have enough experience as a cook to direct the servants intelligently, and to be able to provide food for her family, if the hour of need should ever come. It was high time that Polly should be gaining a little of this experience, so why not extend her lessons to include all the girls? It would probably be the only chance that Florence and the Shepards would ever have. She resolved to try the experiment, for a time at least.

"What's the use of it, anyway?" Florence was saying. "A servant always does the cooking."

"Yes," Mrs. Adams answered, suddenly breaking in on the conversation once more; "but perhaps you won't always be able to keep a servant, perhaps you'll have a poor one. I knew of one unfortunate young wife who knew so little about cooking that, before she could teach her servant, she used to have to study her cook-book and recite the rules to her husband, to be sure she had learned them. Now I don't want any of my girls to be in such an absurd position, so I'm going to give you a few lessons, just to try and see if they are a success. Come next Saturday morning, and bring your gingham aprons."

"Yes," added a voice from the next room, where the doctor had just settled down to his evening paper; "and I'll promise to give two prizes, one to the first girl that will bring me a perfect loaf of bread of her own making, the other to the first one who invites me to a dinner which she herself has cooked."

"That's not fair, papa," remonstrated Polly.

"Jean knows all about it now, and can take both prizes."

"She doesn't know the first thing about bread," returned Jean, "and she never knew till to-night that elastic starch was good for puddings."

The following Saturday morning proved to be the first of a long series of similar meetings. The girls entered into the subject enthusiastically, delighted with the new interest which bade fair to rival Bridget in their estimation; and week after week they gathered in Mrs. Adams's great kitchen to mix and to stir, to bake and to brew. Mistakes were numerous and failures frequent; but Mrs. Adams was an admirable teacher, praising the girls when she could, encouraging them when her conscience forbade her to praise, and they toiled on, regardless of burns, and not even deterred by the prospect of the dish-washing, which always ended their morning's work. Alan was not permitted to cook, but he acted alternately in the capacities of errand-boy and taster-in-chief, and his hearty boy appetite carried him through the operation, unharmed. Polly's experiments were, perhaps, the most original and striking of any that were made. On one occasion, she neglected to sweeten her muffins till they were in the oven and began to bake. The rule called for sugar, and most cooks would have regarded the attempt as a failure; not so with Polly. Slyly opening the oven door, she added a generous teaspoonful of sugar to every separate muffin, greatly to the surprise of the others, when they broke them open, to find a solid lump mysteriously arranged in the top of every one. The teasing she had to endure when the truth was known, was only equalled by that which fell to her lot a week later when, as if to make amends for past extravagance, she forgot to put any sugar at all in her sponge cake. Even Alan's appetite failed to compass the result of this venture.

Slowly the plan extended until, as spring came on, Mrs. Adams used to take her flock on marketing expeditions, letting each in turn select the dinner at her will. These Saturday mornings were regarded by the girls as the crowning frolic of the week, for the simple domestic lessons which they were learning were made so gay and attractive that it was not until long years had passed and they were in charge of homes of their own, that most of them realized all that Mrs. Adams had done for them.

At length, during the latter part of April and the first week in May, the spirit of hospitality appeared to have run riot among the young cooks, for Dr. Adams was invited to a series of six grand dinner parties, each one more elaborate than the last. Jean, as the veteran cook of the club, opened the course, and it was good to see her air of importance as she presided over the long table, in the chair of state from which her mother was for the once deposed. It was all delicious, the doctor declared, and he filled Jean with satisfaction by asking to be helped a third time to her macaroni and cheese, and praised the roast until the other girls exchanged envious glances.

Florence's dinner followed, and was a surprise to them all, for this dainty, helpless girl, who had been brought up to know nothing of the practical side of life, had developed a real genius for cookery; and during the past two months she had spent many a happy hour in the kitchen, helping the cook to concoct her elaborate dishes with a skill which won the praise of even that accomplished tyrant, and Florence was making rapid progress towards being able to take charge of the house and servants which had been promised to her on Hallowe'en.

Polly's turn came last of all, and she had determined to retire from the contest covered with glory in all their eyes. She had chosen the first Saturday in May for her party, and she had gained her mother's somewhat reluctant consent to extend her invitations to include Mrs. Dwight, Mrs. Lang, and Mrs. Hapgood, as well as the other girls and Alan, who had been the usual guests.

It proved to be one of the warm, heavy days which come in the early part of May, a day that is delightful to those who can be absolutely idle, but which is singularly oppressive to the unfortunate majority who have duties to which they must attend. Though the dinner hour was not until six o'clock, Polly was up betimes, and went rushing about the house and slamming doors, with a profound disregard of Aunt Jane's morning nap.

By eleven o'clock the house was in festal array, and the most delicate of lemon puddings was cooling on the ice. Nothing more could be done for hours; but Polly resisted all her mother's efforts to induce her to rest, and roamed excitedly up and down the rooms, now and again pausing to flick a few grains of dust from the mantel, or to rearrange one of the graceful bunches of flowers that decorated the house.

"Now, Polly," said Aunt Jane, at length, with an encouraging trust in human nature; "you'll be utterly tired out to-morrow, and you know that always makes you cross. I really think you'd better go and lie down, or else sit down quietly and read."

But Polly scorned the suggestion. She was longing for the hour to come when she could retire to the kitchen. At length it came and, leaving her new spring gown spread on the bed, to be hastily put on at the last minute, she went running down the stairs. In the hall she paused, horror-stricken, as she heard a familiar voice from the next room, saying to her mother,--

"I always have heard say that his brother hadn't enough principle to save even the little tail of his soul, but nobody ever thought the worse of Solomon Baxter for all that. Folks can't help their relations; it's their friends that tells the story."

Miss Deborah Bean had come to dinner.

With a sinking heart, Polly went on to the kitchen and sat down on one edge of the table, to collect her ideas. If anything did go wrong, she knew, from past experiences, that Miss Bean would not hesitate to mention the fact. But nothing should go wrong; and as Polly gave the roast of beef a vigorous push ovenward, she resolved to do or die. When she went to bed that night, she felt that she had very nearly done both, the doing and the dying.

In the first place, the fire obstinately refused to burn, and in working over that, Polly entirely forgot her vegetables until some time after they should have been put on to cook; so the dinner was delayed for a long half-hour, while Polly was haunted by spectral visions of her guests falling from their chairs, in the faintness of slow starvation. At length all was ready, and leaving the girl to take up the tomato soup which Polly regarded as her one infallible dish, she ran up-stairs to dress herself and appear before her expectant guests, with a flushed face and ruffled curls.

If she had any misgivings as she marshalled her friends to the table and pointed Miss Bean to an extra seat beside Florence, she certainly concealed them with a tact worthy of an older housekeeper. The truth was, Polly felt no uncertainty as to the beginning and the end of her feast. The soup had never failed her, the pudding she knew to be good; so she could bear with the tough and stringy roast and the hard, lumpy potatoes with a fair grace. There was a hush of interested expectancy, as Polly dipped the ladle into the creamy, foamy soup. Then, when she poured it out into the plate, the conversation hastily started up again, but not so soon as to cover a sudden giggle from Alan, which he would have given worlds to recall when he saw Polly's tragic expression, as she surveyed the thin, watery compound and the white lumps floating in it.

The mothers present accepted their shares in silence and were heroically preparing to eat them, when Miss Bean was heard to speak.

"No, thank you," she said, as she waved her plate away; "I don't care for any; it don't look very good. I reckon it wheyed a little mite, didn't it?" she asked, turning to Mrs. Adams inquiringly.

But the doctor mercifully led her off into a tide of reminiscence, and his daughter was spared for the time being. The dinner went on from bad to worse, but the guests were most polite, and tried their best to keep up a brisk conversation, while they nibbled at the underdone potatoes and picked at the overdone asparagus. Miss Bean alone was unconscious of the true state of affairs, for Mrs. Adams had thought it unnecessary to inform her of the cause for the party, and she commented with a perfect unconcern, ending with the final verdict,--

"Well, Mis' Adams, though I do say it that shouldn't, I do think your cook has fallen off considerable since I was here before. No wonder Polly looks kind o' peaked."

The sudden buzz of conversation rose again, as if to cover Polly's confusion, while Alan gave her hand a sympathetic pinch under the tablecloth. However, Polly was supported through these trials by the thought of her final triumph when the pudding should appear. At last the meat was removed, and the clearing of the table was only interrupted by a quick cry of "Scat!" from Mary, as she was taking the last plates from the room.

"Now," thought Polly, straightening up and raising her eyes defiantly, "now I'll show them that there's one thing I can do well, anyway."

Alas for Polly! Some one else had thought her pudding a success. It came in, borne by Mary, who set it down, disclosing a round hole in it, near one end of the dish, and bent to whisper in Polly's ear.

"What?" gasped Polly, as the bright color rushed into her cheeks, and then faded again.

Mary repeated her whisper, more loudly this time, and the company plainly heard the one word _cat_.

It was too true. The Adams cat was an animal of refined tastes and, preferring pudding to her ordinary diet of bread and milk, she had watched her chance when Mary's back was turned, and mounting to the table, she had helped herself to the dainty dish, which was for the moment unguarded.

Tears stood in Polly's eyes, and another minute would have brought them down in a shower, had not the doctor burst out laughing, as he exclaimed,--

"It's too bad, and I am sorry for you, Polly; but I don't believe we any of us ever enjoyed a dinner more than we have this one."

And Mrs. Hapgood added hastily,--

"Yes, and we mothers have all been through it ourselves so many times, too."

All this was like Hebrew to Miss Bean, who was at a loss to see why they should all be administering comfort to Polly. But there could be no doubt that something was wrong, so she inquired, with an air of stony censure,--

"What is the matter, for the land sakes? If Polly can't eat what's set before her, she can go without."

That settled the question of Polly's tears, and she began to laugh hysterically, while the others joined in until the dining-room rang with their mirth.

"Well," said the doctor, as he pushed back his chair, half an hour later; "if Florence takes the prize for the best cooking, Polly ought to have the one for the best entertainment."

The guests went away early, and Polly ran upstairs to take off her best gown and slip on a comfortable dark blue wrapper. When she returned to the parlor, her mother was sitting in front of the fire, in a wide sleepy-hollow chair. She turned her head, as Polly entered the room.

"Come, dear," she said; "there's room for two here."

And Polly came.

The motherly arm around her shoulders felt very comforting to her just then; and, like a little, tired child, she cried it all out, all the weariness and mortification and sense of failure. But while the tears were still falling, she began to laugh once more.

"Oh, Jerusalem Adams!" she said; "did you ever see anything so funny as Miss Bean was about my soup?"

Her mother smiled, but before she had time to reply, Polly went on tragically,--

"But wasn't it all dreadful, mamma? Seems to me I never can look any of them in the face again, Mrs. Lang and all. And just when I thought I was going to be so smart and show off all I knew!"

If Aunt Jane had been there, she would doubtless have reminded Polly that pride must have a fall, and that this was a just reward for trying to outdo her friends. Mrs. Adams did no such thing, however. She only drew the curly head over against her shoulder and stroked it gently, as she said, with a half-laughing tenderness,--

"My poor little Polly! You tried to do more than you had strength for. But, after all, it's as true a side of life as Florence's successful dinner was; and every housekeeper must go through just such experiences, again and again. You are no more likely to fail the next time, because your dinner to-day wasn't a good one. It is only one of the unlucky days that we all must have."

"You, mamma?" And Polly raised her head in wonder.

"Yes, I've had my fair share of just such times." And Mrs. Adams laughed quietly, as she thought of similar chapters in her own housekeeping. Then she added, "But I was proud to see my little girl bear it so well, without breaking down or getting vexed at Miss Bean. That's worth a dozen elegant dinners, Polly. But now it's high time my cook was in bed and asleep, without a dream of soups or puddings or disagreeable guests who come uninvited. Some day you and I will have another dinner, and astonish the natives."

A few moments later, she followed Polly upstairs to tuck the blankets around her and cuddle her, and kiss away the few tears that lay on her cheeks. Then she went back to the parlor, where she and her husband laughed heartily and long over Polly's grand dinner party.